


Of Prophets and How They Save The World

by hanwritessolo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: A glorified healer arrives at your town. You seek him out, with hopes to receive his blessing—but you end up teaching him a thing or two about what it means to truly live.





	1. The Healing

**Author's Note:**

> First things first:  
> 1\. This story was fueled by this [fanart](http://clave-razon.tumblr.com/post/168620105213/healerardyn-before-the-downfall) that I came across Tumblr, which was made worse when I saw this [WIP from the talented hanatsuki89.](http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/174294093653/an-ardyn-wip-appears-ps-some-people-guessed-it)  
> 2\. Because I don't have the patience to wait for an Episode Ardyn, I am fully aware how this is going to be way OOC because we don't exactly have any idea what Ardyn is like pre-game, so I took the liberty to carve this out and let my ideas run amok. So for the sake of this little story, let me just paint Ardyn as a nice man before he went completely nuts. Let me paint him as a good friend, lover, brother. Let me give him some sort of decency ala Sephiroth, Crisis Core style.  
> 3\. Also, thanks to the Royal Edition, it has come to my attention that the Mystic is Ardyn's brother, and I don't know why, but I can't help but imagine that Somnus looks a hella lot like a young Noctis. The Lucis Caelum line is not shitting around on their genes, tbh, so I really wouldn't be surprised if they looked alike. (Which, I guess, would probably explain why Ardyn is so hellbent in crushing Noctis because he reminds him of his brother he once loved, or something angsty like that.)

Ardyn rarely counts the days he is away from the Crown City, but today, he is starting to feel the weight of the time that has passed.

Perhaps the unusually blazing climate is to blame. Ardyn is no stranger to the tropical regions in Lucis, but this year has been hotter than the Infernian’s fickle flame. The season has transformed the roads of Cleigne into a parched wasteland, the soil cracked and bone-dry in the searing heat. In his growing discomfort, Ardyn rolls the sleeves of his loose white dress shirt that now sloppily clings to his frame thanks to his own sweat, and he ties his red-violet hair into a messy bun. Nero, his ever faithful chocobo companion, can even sense his unease that the majestic black bird descends to a slow trot down the dusty road.

Behind Ardyn, Gilgamesh steers his own ride—an equally majestic golden chocobo named Weiss—and sidles up to him.

“My lord, the next town should already be nearby. I apologize if the route we have taken has caused you any inconvenience.” Gilgamesh politely offers, bowing his head. Despite his daunting appearance, Gilgamesh’s display of his gentle courtesies and utmost propriety directly contrasts his massive height, broad shoulders, and striking amber eyes; even his long silver hair parted like braided curtains on both sides of his face does little to help encourage a less menacing look.

Ardyn faces Gilgamesh with a cheeky smile. “My dear friend, there’s no need for you to apologize on behalf of the machinations of nature. It is what it is.”

“But are you exhausted, my lord?”

Ardyn hesitates, but he lies, “No, I’m perfectly fine, Gilgamesh. I appreciate your concern—“

Nero lets out a loud _kweh!_ that Ardyn pulls into a halt. Gilgamesh finds it difficult not to laugh.

“It seems that the bird only knows how to tell the truth,” Gilgamesh says, amused. “We’ve been on a long journey, after all.”

_Four months, three weeks, two days..._

Ardyn sighs and offers no response, and he fails to notice that Gilgamesh is keenly watching him. The weight of four months, three weeks, and two days begin to manifest in Ardyn’s face; his eyes reflect a heavy weariness, his lips tighten to an exhaustion he refuses to acknowledge.

It is true that Ardyn embarked on this noble expedition for a genuinely good cause; for months, he dedicated his time traveling from one bustling town to another, visiting houses of people afflicted by the unknown malady rampantly spreading all throughout Eos, and blessing them with his gift of healing. He treats them all with profound care, and not once did Ardyn fail to welcome the wounded and weary at his feet, the sick and dying, the lost and uncared for.

His stubborn younger brother insisted that Ardyn did not need to bear the burden of their powers alone; but with his stubbornness directly proportional to his own, Ardyn still pursued this rigorous journey, despite knowing that the eleven-year-old Somnus is right. His brother might still be a child, but Ardyn found him too wise and brazen for his age. He loves him for it, and fiercely so.

_Let me protect you, brother. Let this burden be my cross to carry._

And if he could only allow himself one moment, or a fraction of an hour, or a breath of a second, Ardyn would admit how much he misses his brother. Or just simply how tired he truly is, how he condemns the frailty of his own flesh, how he wants to strip away his body’s limitations, to rid himself of his own weakness when people around him are suffering and dying and—

“My lord?” Gilgamesh finally cleaves the silence with the sudden sharpness of his voice. He is still looking at Ardyn, confused and concerned. “We shouldn’t be much farther now. Are you—”

“You worry too much, my friend,” Ardyn chews and swallows all of his inhibitions into a flashy smile. He pats Gilgamesh on the back before he pulls in Nero's reins, galloping away, leaving his trusted steward’s worries to wither at the corner of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Your trembling hands are calloused as the day your lover left without a word.

Not that it matters now, anyway. What matters now is that your hands quiver and shake that you lose your grip around the porcelain bowl, slipping away from your fingertips, and gracelessly meeting the concrete floor with a wild crash. Your bandaged forearms are burning without fire, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you shuffle around your little hut in a frenzy, searching for that vial of remedy you had personally concocted to relieve the pain, if only temporarily.

But you cannot seem to find it. So instead, you whisper a sincere prayer to the Six to grant you a swift death.

You have been enduring this scourge—or blight or daemon’s curse or whatever name the villagers of Lestallum have decided to coin this monstrous disease—since the day your lover discovered the patches of ghastly gray erupting from your skin. The same day they probably decided should be the last day to be around you because, well, what’s the point in staying with a person about to die, anyway?

Again, it doesn’t matter now. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that the pain either subsides or kills you in a moment’s time.

But the sound of a hundred footsteps and excited voices jolt you out of your silent suffering.

You drag your feet and you press an ear against your front door. You cannot bring yourself to open it and let the people see your current state, so you only listen. “The Healer is in town!” You hear someone announce amongst the collective chatter, and your heart stops.

Lestallum may be a small canyon town, but with the occasional mercenaries and peddlers passing through, it is no surprise that the news about this Healer have been circulating around to both travelers and townsfolk alike. Even someone like you who live far off the main thoroughfare and all the way on the outskirts of the town have heard about this Healer. Revered and respected by many, people claim that the man works miracles. They say that with just his touch, the blind could finally see, the cripple could walk, the deaf could hear.

The ones with the scourge are reported to be cured, too.

_Gods be good, if this is hope..._

You are, in every way, a skeptic right to the bone. But today, you decide to take your chances and gamble on otherworldly wonders and miracles and whatever this Healer has to offer.

So you snatch your cloak and you bolt out of your door, still throbbing in the agonizing pain. Past through the barren fields, past the baked pastures, and past dry stone huts and wooden houses and withered trees, you run across the sweltering road. From afar, you can see the crowd gathering like a wake of vultures over a carcass, all squawking in morbid anticipation. You try to squeeze your way in, only to fail miserably.

“If I may so humbly request everyone to please settle down,” a booming voice suddenly commands, and like some sort of sorcery, the townspeople fall into hushed whispers. You tiptoe to get a better look behind the menacing voice, but you are only able to glimpse, even for a mere second, a gigantic armored man with beautiful silver hair and frighteningly piercing eyes.

_Is he… the Healer?_

Another voice speaks up, and it is not the silver-haired man.

“We thank you all for such a warm welcome,” the voice starts, and whatever the person says next gets drowned by people hollering and cheering. Piqued with intense curiosity, you back away from the crowd and you find yourself climbing on top of the roof of a nearby house. Not your finest moment, you admit, but desperate times call for very desperate measures.

At this distance, you spot the Healer’s face among the throng of spectators.

You are somehow surprised to find that the man possesses a young face: comely and handsome, with the exception of his striking velvety hair. The armored man stands on guard beside him, hovering menacingly, as if ready to shred anyone who dares to pose a threat. And yet, despite his efforts, the Healer seems to pay him no mind as he welcomes a sick man infected with the scourge with open arms.

And with all honesty, you did not exactly prepare yourself to witness something so… strangely ordinary.

Perhaps you should not have expected the Healer to perform some sort of spectacle or riveting spell out of his so-called miracles. There is no bolt of thunder nor a single spark of flame, nor did the earth part beneath his feet.

And yet, there’s something so gripping in this strange ordinariness. One by one, he attends to the needs of anyone who comes to him, and he beckons for them to come closer with such patience and gentleness, treating them with a benevolent kindness, like he owns a well of affection inside of him that never runs out. He carries children with utmost care, holds the sick with unfailing compassion, touches the foreheads of men and women who seek his blessing, and he does all of these things—these strangely, brutally ordinary things—over and over, repeatedly as if in a perpetual loop, all with a solemn smile on his beautiful face. And the people walk away crying out of joy and gratitude, having been freed and cured of their afflictions with the simplest of his touch.

It is a bizarre sight to behold, watching these people from all walks of life celebrate and rejoice that it made you lose track of time. Like being engulfed in a trance that makes everything feel so possible, or infinite. Little by little, you mindlessly watch as more people come forward and walk away, until the waves of people begin to ebb, happily retreating to their homes, and the Healer and his steward start to march away, about to leave town…

_Gods be damned, I am a fucking idiot!_

“Wait!” You yell as the pair already depart riding their chocobos. In your panic, you hastily climb down from the roof that you scrape your knee—an additional pain to your many other pains, which by now you have no time to pay any attention to—and you break into a desperate run.

“Wait, please—“ you yell again in between heaving breaths, but they cannot seem to hear you. They are already halfway outside the town, and you are still running to catch up...

Until you see that they stutter into a halt.

Unlike your broken porcelain bowl, the Healer staggers to his side, slowly slipping away from the saddle of his black chocobo, his body gracelessly meeting the ground with a quiet thud.

 

* * *

 

For what it’s worth, Ardyn is pretty certain he has not returned yet to the Crown City, but he finds himself in his room. He knows it’s his room when he immediately recognizes the desk drowning in multitudes of books and scrolls, the dusty shelves behind it, and the unmade bed at the corner where his brother is now sitting.

“Why do you always push yourself too hard, brother?” Somnus asks, his voice low and lonely. He raises his head and looks at Ardyn, his dark blue eyes curious and searching.

But Ardyn only responds to his brother’s question with a faint smile. He approaches the boy and wraps him in a tight embrace.

“I’m fine,” Ardyn finally says, pulling away and ruffling his brother’s well-kept raven-black hair.

Somnus protests with a groan, “No, you’re not fine. You’re sick.” He stares at Ardyn and in a whisper, he tells him, “Please come home.”

“But I am home, Somnus—“

“Please don’t go, brother.”

In a blink of an eye, Somnus’ gentle face changes to something grotesque—eyes bleeding black, his skin paler, mouth foaming with blood.

Terror washes over Ardyn and he seizes Somnus’ face. But with his touch, the image of his brother only blurs before him. And he tries to scream but his voice would not come out, and the silence only grows around him until he is completely devoured by darkness.

 

* * *

 

Ardyn wakes up thrashing in a cold sweat with the fullest intent of killing you.

Well, at least that’s what it feels like when he has his hand wrapped around your neck, wringing the life out of you. But Ardyn does not mean you any harm, and you know it; for the past few days, you have been watching him restlessly drift between consciousness and his nightmares, and right now, you just happen to be within the perimeter of his worst nightmare yet.

And it’s a good thing that Gilgamesh is quick on his feet. He hurriedly steps in between the both of you and he pulls Ardyn back.

“My lord, let go—“

“Where am I?!" Ardyn demands in a hysterical fit. “And Somnus, is he—“

“Your… brother is... not here,” you cough out, and you struggle to explain as you try to pry Ardyn’s hands off your neck, “And… you’re… in my house…”

Ardyn turns to you, and in an instant, he calms down and he returns to his senses. He drops his hands, and the realization of what he has just done finally dawns on him that his face reddens in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Ardyn falters, and he looks at Gilgamesh. And then at you. After a painful second, he sheepishly asks, “How long have I been... asleep?”

You and Gilgamesh trade a knowing look.

Gilgamesh clears his throat and answers, “It’s been five days, my lord. Our host has generously taken their time to take care of you.”

Gilgamesh begins to explain what happened. A flash of urgency crosses Ardyn’s pale face. Like drawing strength from an empty pit, he weakly smiles at you and croaks, “Thank you… for your hospitality. But I believe we must go—”

Before Gilgamesh could even protest at Ardyn's ridiculous suggestion, you beat him to it. “Are you mad?” You return Ardyn’s smile with a frown. “You’re still burning with fever. Look at you.”

Ardyn sighs, “But you have done so much for me—us—that I can’t bother you any much longer—”

“With all due respect,” you curtly interrupt, “refusing to receive help when you are in dire need of one is not an act of selflessness but an act of foolishness. I understand you are in a hurry, but wouldn’t it be best that you rest for the long journey ahead?”

Ardyn does not answer. Gilgamesh is stunned by your audacity, and he only nods in agreement.

Before the silence could stretch any longer, Ardyn politely asks, “May I know your name?”

This time, it is you who do not answer. Ardyn steps closer to you, and you notice him eyeing your bandage-covered forearms. You turn away, and you can feel his amber eyes burning a hole at your back. After a while, you say, “I’m afraid my name is of little importance.”

“How come?”

“Because I’m just a nobody,” you respond, albeit a little too tartly. You face him and offer him an empty smile before you take your leave.

 


	2. The Loving

 

That evening, Ardyn could barely sleep.

Not that it was any surprise at all; having spent the last five days in deep slumber, it’s a small wonder why he is now wide and madly awake, as if the warm and dry night demands his undivided attention. In the darkness pierced by the faint moonlight and the flickering flame from the lamp by the bedside table, he lay perfectly still, staring at the thatched ceiling, listening to the gentle hum of the crickets and cicadas singing along with the wind, hoping that the sound will distract him away from the threat of his thoughts.

_I’m just a nobody._

Ardyn hears the words again in your voice, replaying the exact moment from earlier that day. In his lifetime and in all his travels, he has met people who regard themselves in such a fashion, and he tries—as he always does, because he cares way too much, even with the most trivial things—to make a conscious effort to persuade people otherwise. Because against all growing indifference, against all hopelessness, and against all apathy directed towards others, or perhaps, towards one’s self, Ardyn firmly believes this: that a person, regardless of their background or circumstances, is not the sum of their problems. That people are not their sickness. That they are not their worries nor are they their mistakes. That even without all the things that weigh them down, they still _matter._

And Ardyn had wanted to say all of that to you.

Because if he could, he would turn back that particular time and he would say something. He would not let you go out of that door. Sure, he might end up stammering for the appropriate words, and Gilgamesh would have a field day torturing him for the mishap, but at least _something_ was said.

Because normally, Ardyn always had an eloquent way with words. But with you… it was a damning first that he was unable to say anything. The way you looked at him reflected a silent ferocity that froze him out of his wits and made him doubt his own intentions, well-meaning and sincere as it may be.

But the truth is, above everything else, he could not possibly understand how someone like you—you, who have demonstrated grace and generosity and kindness to let a couple of strangers stay under your roof in their crucial time of need—could ever consider yourself in a low regard of being a nobody.

Ill at ease with the humdrum of his worries, Ardyn gets up. He looks around and immediately notices that Gilgamesh is nowhere to be found. With his trusted friend’s strange habit of sleeping in the company of Nero and Weiss, Ardyn confidently surmises that he would find Gilgamesh resting along with the chocobos.

As Ardyn tiptoes his way out of the house, he catches a glimpse of the opposite bed and sees you sleeping peacefully. In the light of the flame and the moonlight seeping through the window, he cannot help but notice how the features of your face have softened to a gentleness, a calm after a raging storm. For a second, he starts to wonder if there had been someone else living with you, but kills the thought in an instant...

He stops himself from watching any longer.

Carefully, he opens the door, ducks his head, and steps out into the night.

With the breeze whistling a gentle tune and the trees rustling into a serenade, Ardyn basks in the pleasantness of the evening. He never expected that your humble hut is situated far from the main town itself and almost in the middle of nowhere. Over the horizon, he could spy the ghosts of Cleigne’s grand mountains and the glimmer of the meteorite; around him, the summer-barren earth is enveloped in darkness, sparsely surrounded by the silhouette of trees. Above, the stars illuminate the sky like dusts of glitter.

_This beautiful view is what I’ve been missing for the past few days._ He looks around, and not far from the hut, he spots a stable where Nero and Weiss are huddled together, sleeping. It only took one look for Ardyn to confirm that he is right—indeed, Gilgamesh really is with their feathered friends, sleeping on the haystacks.

A lungful of fresh air and a handful of mosquito bites later, Ardyn goes back inside as cautiously as he can. With no imminent sign of drowsiness, his curiosity gets the better of him. Quietly, he roams the other side of your hut—which, for the record, there is nothing much to be _roamed around_ , not when it is considerably cramped for the likes of tall people like Ardyn and Gilgamesh—and surveys what seems to be your work table.

Oddly enough, your desk reminds him of his own room: books and bottles and flasks haphazardly strewn all over, drawings and blueprints and maps plastered on the wall, like an arbitrary set of thoughts hurriedly translated into a whimsical collage of images. The fragrance of rosemary and oregano strongly waft on one of the small counters. For some reason, Ardyn is immediately filled with an eagerness to wait until dawn to talk to you about all these intricate things…

Except he did not have to wait for dawn to arrive.

Because when he turns around, he sees you standing with one hand on your waist, and the lamp on the other.

“Can I help you with anything?” You say by way of greeting.

There isn’t any hint of irritation in your voice, only mild concern, but Ardyn heaves a deep breath and shakes his head out of sheer embarrassment. “I, uh—I apologize… I didn’t mean to look around without your permission. I just couldn’t sleep—“

“It’s fine. I’ll make you a cup of tea,” you nonchalantly offer as you set the lamp down and light the nearby sconces.

Ardyn draws into a blank. You are already busying yourself in the kitchen counter when he says, “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

The sound that occupies the room is that of the kettle hissing with boiling water, which is queasy enough to say the least, as if it loudly goads Ardyn to finally engage in a proper conversation with you. He could start by formally introducing himself, as one does… which he immediately thought would be painfully unbearable, because you are making tea and he couldn’t find it in him to burst out and say, ‘Hi, my name is Ardyn Lucis Caelum, pleased to meet you,’ when he is perfectly aware that any mention of his family name always earned him a look that is neither affable nor amiable, a look that juggled between the lines of disbelief and disdain, as if it was his family’s fault that the gods chose them and deemed them worthy to inherit powers unlike any other, leaving the rest of the world to wither in blind wonder.

Together with the simmering aroma of lemon balm and chamomile, Ardyn squares his shoulders and speaks up, “I’m sorry, I believe I haven’t properly introduced myself to you. My name is Ardyn—“

“—Lucis Caelum. First of his name, eldest son and heir to House Lucis Caelum,” you finish the statement for him as you turn around and hand him a cup of tea. You smile and ask him, “How are you feeling?”

“I… I’m much better.” He takes a sip while quietly hoping his face does not betray his facade of confidence. He, then, continues, “You have my thanks. And it’s certainly been quite a while since someone addressed me in my full name.”

Ardyn sets aside his now empty cup on the desk as another silence settles in.

You shatter it when you say, “I’m sorry. For how I acted earlier. I haven’t had guests, so…”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Ardyn reassures. “In fact, my friend and I—we are in your debt.”

“Your friend is an interesting fellow,” you add warmly. “I asked him to stay inside, but he prefers to be in the stable. With the chocobos.”

Ardyn laughs. “That’s most certainly a new one—I’ve never heard anyone describe Gilgamesh as interesting. People always surmise that he’s nothing but a frightening man.”

“Well, I most certainly think he isn’t frightening at all,” you protest with a cheery grin. “Anyone who loves a chocobo the way he does must have a capacity for compassion.”

“Indeed, he's a compassionate man,” Ardyn agrees, and he couldn’t help but look at your smiling face. He catches himself again, and he steers his attention to the scroll of drawings and blueprints on the wall.

Before the both of you drift to another uneasy silence, he starts, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but these beautiful images on the wall… what exactly are they?”

You glance at the side of the wall Ardyn is referring to. “Oh, that? It’s… a study of some sort. I’m looking for ways to harness the meteorite’s power as a source of energy for this town.”

“That sounds phenomenal,” Ardyn smiles with utmost praise. “Is that the reason why you’re living out here on your own?”

“Yes. Though it’s mostly because the townspeople think I’m a lunatic. The hermit, the recluse. Occasionally, an evil witch,” you shrug, and Ardyn studies you for any sign of remorse in your face, but all he could see is a shadow of stone-cold indifference. As if the subject of being ostracized can be so lightly taken without offense. “But it’s fine, at least I get to work in peace.”

Ardyn regards you for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that you have been treated so unkindly.”

“It’s not your fault.” You smile and add in confident assurance. “Anyway, it’s my turn,” you fold your arms over your chest, and you fix your eyes on Ardyn. “Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“Why… do you do what you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Gilgamesh told me your story—I hope you don’t mind.” You lean your back against the counter, studying him with interest. “You’re a man of nobility—you’re born in a prominent family, you live in a big city. And yet, you choose to discard all that to travel in anonymity to backwater towns such as this one. Why?”

Ardyn considers you for a moment, and this moment—the luminous evening, the fragrance of herbs, the embers of fire flickering to illuminate your curious face—grants him a strange serenity that manifests into a solemn smile.

“When I was a child,” Ardyn begins, “my mother told me that the gods have bestowed upon us their power to fight against the darkness. I only learned that I was blessed with the power to heal when my brother fell sick with the scourge. He was two that time.

“When my father found out that I could do what I do, he forbade me to tell anyone. He feared that people would take advantage of me, that there was always a high price to pay for the kind of power that I possess. So he kept me away, even if there are people knocking on our doors, asking for help.

“But one day, I watched from my window how a man sick with the scourge transformed into a daemon, killing his own wife. My father was quick enough to kill it, to prevent the daemon from causing further damage to the city. However, at the end of the day, I thought to myself: _I had the power to stop that from happening._ If only I was brave enough to step out of the comfort of our house, I could’ve helped that man. He would’ve been alive. He and his wife would still be alive, and no lives would’ve been lost.

“So, perhaps the answer to your question is that I’m doing what I’m doing now out of fear. It’s the fear of doing nothing,” Ardyn confesses, “knowing fully well that I can do something—even a little—for people who feel like they are losing everything.”

“That is… quite a heavy burden,” you finally say, stepping a little bit closer to Ardyn.

Ardyn nods meekly. “One way to look at it, yes.”

“Then I hope you take care of yourself better,” you tell him all too candidly. “I may not have earned the right or place to say this to you, but I will say it nonetheless: No one forbids you to feel hungry or thirsty or tired. Those things are not a sign of weakness. It’s our bodies’ way of reminding us that we’re human. And you’re a man who has been given a godly gift, but still a man all the same.”

“I…” Ardyn trails off and falls silent. He exhales a quiet chuckle, “Your brutal honesty never ceases to amaze me.”

“Consider it my service as the town’s hermit,” you answer with a smile. Without any thought, you reach for his face and you gently press the palm of your hand against his forehead. “You’re still warm,” you pull away, “would you still like more tea—”

“No, that’s quite alright. Thank you.” Ardyn smiles, and it is only in that second that he registers how cold and soft your hands are.

_But those injuries…_   

As if reading his mind, you shuffle away, taking the lamp resting on the counter. You retreat to your bed when suddenly, Ardyn asks, “Would it trouble you if we stay here for a little while longer?”

“If it pleases you,” you simply answer. You kill the flame and return to sleep, leaving Ardyn to his own devices.

 

* * *

 

The days that went unhurried and the nights that went unslept were enough for you and Ardyn to transform a peculiar familiarity to forge an unlikely friendship.

It hadn’t been an easy start. When Ardyn had fully recovered, he did not waste a second to earnestly extend his help to you on any of your menial errands, an offer which you vehemently opposed to and rejected. But Ardyn, as a man of virtue, was persistent and charming (but mostly, just persistent) that you eventually let him.

On most days, he and Gilgamesh would take turns in chopping firewood and foraging for herbs and hunting for game while you dedicated your time in your study. Ardyn would often come back with a triumphant look on his face whenever he caught anything, and would immediately dismiss his efforts whenever he saw you poring over a textbook. He always seemed to be perpetually curious with your interests, and you indulge him to a lengthy discussion, which was something strangely foreign to you, by all accounts; you have been accustomed to people crushing your ideas with a blatant insult or indifference, that the thought of someone—and Ardyn at that, of all people—paying attention to what you have to say is a good kind of disorienting, but disorienting nonetheless.

On most evenings, the three of you would spend hours on trading anecdotes and exchanging stories over dinner until Gilgamesh would call it a night, leaving you and Ardyn to share more anecdotes, more stories, and more of that infectious laughter of yours that Ardyn boldly admitted at some point to be the sound of pure happiness that he wanted to keep it in a bottle and take with him for eternity—a sentiment that made you blush furiously like a fool.

But apart from the hunting errands and late night conversations, the fact was this: it only took these unhurried days and unslept nights for Ardyn to realize what he had been missing in life.

And it only took these unhurried days and unslept nights for you to realize that this is exactly the way you will wreck your own heart again.

 

* * *

 

That evening, you could barely sleep. The shooting pain is back, mercilessly throbbing in your forearms, and you stifle the scream threatening to burst out of your mouth. You toss and turn, shifting restlessly in a cold sweat.

And before you know it, Ardyn is kneeling at the side of your bed.

He takes your hand and asks, “What’s wrong?”

You sit up, and with the small flame illuminating the room, the worry is evident on his face. You mumble, “It’s nothing—“

“It’s this, isn’t it?” Ardyn carefully takes both of your wrists to expose your bandages. Without any strength to protest anymore, you weakly nod.

Slowly, Ardyn unwraps the cloth from your arms, and reveals the festering flesh underneath. There is only tenderness in his eyes, and he gently thumbs the part where your flesh is painted with decaying purple. He does not look away from the horror, nor does he even feel repulsed by the sight of it.

Instead, Ardyn plants a kiss on every spot. And then another. And another. Until slowly, you feel the pain subside, and in a matter of seconds, you watch as your skin return to what it once was.

“I…” You whisper, and the words of gratitude that leave you stumble into a sob. “Thank you. So, so much…”

Ardyn pushes a strand of hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear. “A wise person once told me that refusing to receive help when you are in dire need is not an act of selflessness but an act of foolishness.” He smiles fondly at you, and you laugh in between tears. “How come you never asked me?”

“I don’t know...” You purse your lips, hesitating. Ardyn never lets go of your hands, and you feel him squeeze a little firmer, as if to encourage you that yes, you can confide in him. You relent, and in a heavy sigh, you mutter, “I just… maybe because I don’t know what I am without this pain anymore.”

Ardyn looks at you with the strangest expression on his face. You brush your hand against his cheek, and he presses his lips on your knuckles.

And all at once, he closes that aching space between the two of you when he crashes his lips onto yours. You are generous enough to return the gesture that the kiss is frantic and hungry, like two people navigating each other’s bodies to search for rescue. With your hands on his chest and his lips on your neck, you hear him whisper, “Let me call you by your name. Please.”

Here, in this moment, you allow yourself to give in to the luxury of being known, of being whole, of being visible. As his lips continue to trace the outline of your shoulder, mapping every inch of you with his fingers burning with furious longing, you offer him your name.

“Izunia,” you say in half-moan, half-whisper, “my name is Izunia.”

Ardyn smiles and he lets the name roll like honey in his tongue as he only kisses you harder and deeper.

 


	3. The Leaving

 

Ardyn knows how this ends.

Even so, that does not stop him from pulling you close to his chest. Two bodies in a duel for desire, locked in a violent yearning. While your mouth is a loaded pistol firing away with a fierce kiss, his is only an empty gun.

So he takes the bullet. Savours the taste. Gorges on his wounded need for you. His once deft hands have gone clumsy, nervous to the point of trembling, like his fingers are returning from exile and finally remembering the warmth of affection and desire that he has somehow forgotten. So he douses himself in it and lets his hands roam your body, coasting through every curve and crevice, his lips on your lips, again and again and again.

This, Ardyn thought, is love. The beauty and carnage of it. He never quite understood the appeal of empty, soulless words like _fuck_ or _sex_ when this—skin pressed against skin, bare flesh and muscle that meld and shudder and quake, limbs tangled into blinding passion—transcends mere physical contact. Because as you cry out his name and he cries out yours, like an opera of whimpers and moans, the music of your voices rise like smoke from the hearth to the chimney and into the sky, a signal fire drawing attention, as if to declare: _this is what it truly means to make love._

Ardyn collapses on the bed and you on top of him. He wraps his arms around you and holds you closer, listening to the sound of your breath, soaking in the sweet scent of your hair. His hands lightly tread the arch of your back, and somewhere between the idle strokes and patterns where his fingers meet your skin, his touch whispers a plea to stretch this time, to let this moment freeze for eternity.

Because Ardyn does not want this to end.

The next thing he blurts out is almost a prayer.

“Come away with me.”

Your lips curl into a teasing smirk. “Was it _that good_ that you considered the idea?”

“It was quite out of this world, if I do say so myself." Ardyn laughs, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head. Then, the tone of his voice changes and he adds, “Though I’m rather serious about the invitation…”

Ardyn leaves the statement with a leaden pause. You shift to meet his gaze, and Ardyn’s eyes is as resolute as they can be.

“I’m sorry, I…” You hesitate and stammer, “I don’t think I can—I’m… I can’t leave this town yet, you know I’m—“

“I understand,” Ardyn interrupts, and you both sit up. His face creased with worry, he takes your hand and says, “I’m sorry I said that. It’s just…”

_If only I could stay._

As if sensing his inhibitions, you gently cup his face. “Ardyn, I’ll be here,” you reassure him, “You’ll know where to find me. That is, if you would still remember me or any of this once you leave—“

“Izunia,” Ardyn smiles, and he says your name with such brimming promise. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget someone like you.”

 

* * *

 

“You finally seem to be in higher spirits, my lord.”

The chocobos squawk in unison as Gilgamesh pauses from feeding Nero and Weiss with the gysahl greens resting at the palm of his hands, turning to greet Ardyn as he steps out of the hut.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Ardyn greets back, pretending not to notice the glint in Gilgamesh’s eyes. With a quirk of his lip and a scratch of his cheek, he asks, “Have you seen—“

“Off to the market to pick up some books. Says they’ll be back soon,” Gilgamesh answers with a knowing smile.

Ardyn narrows his eyes at his trusted steward. “That face of yours is making me nervous. Out with it.”

“Nothing,” Gilgamesh only shrugs, drawing his attention to the chocobos, simultaneously feeding them and brushing their feathers. “Nero and Weiss were restless last night, thought there were some daemons prowling about. Can’t really explain to the chocobos that the loud moaning wasn’t—“

“Oh, for the love of the Six.” Ardyn groans and drags a hand over his face, and Gilgamesh could not stifle his amusement. “I am _so_ sorry you had to… hear _things…”_

“It’s alright.” Gilgamesh looks back at him. “I’m thoroughly relieved I chose the stables.”

They both laugh. Faith and fealty aside, this is the kind of friendship that Ardyn and Gilgamesh have forged in their lifetime: the kind where their laughter booms and swells into the summer air, the one that carries a bittersweet nostalgia that turns a part of themselves into silly boys again…

“Oh, by the way—” Gilgamesh’s face suddenly stiffens and digs something in his pocket. He fishes out a folded parchment, and grimly hands it over to Ardyn. “I didn’t want to dampen your mood, but… a raven arrived earlier this morning. From your father.”

The mention of his father swiftly dissolves their short-lived euphoria. Ardyn unfolds the letter and reads it briefly. “He wants us to return at once,” he tells Gilgamesh. “It’s about the Crystal.”

Anything that involves the Crystal is always a matter of extreme urgency, so Gilgamesh casts Ardyn a worried look. He asks, with much hesitation: “My lord, do you... need us to depart now?”

Ardyn sighs, and his lips twist into something between a grimace and a smile. “But I…”

Before Ardyn could take the next second to heavily ponder on the idea, Gilgamesh suggests gently, “You need not worry, my lord. We can depart tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

They both nod. Faith and fealty aside, this, too, is the kind of friendship that Ardyn and Gilgamesh have forged in their lifetime: the kind where it only takes a quirked brow or a clenched fist or a thin-lipped smile to know what goes on in their minds, the one that does not require words to fill in the gaps.

Because Gilgamesh did not need to further ask Ardyn to know the agony of leaving this place when it is written all over his face, plain as the scorching summer day.

 

* * *

 

You know how this ends.

Even so, that does not stop you from grabbing a fistful of Ardyn’s hair as he rushes in and rushes forward inside you. Two bodies twirled and twisted in a ravenous desire for each other, relishing its final hours. While your kiss is a broken lamentation, his is an offering of a fragile promise running out of time.

So you devour. Consume. No second to waste to be shy nor polite. You sink your teeth into the crook of his neck, fingers scratching his back, clawing marks and crosses against his skin as if this is your only way to find redemption. So you baptize yourself in this moment as Ardyn only takes you harder and faster, and his name spills like sweet hymnals over and over and over.

This, you thought, is love. A holy catastrophe of miracle and madness. Not once did you find yourself believing in miracles, but here, drunk and drenched in pain and pleasure, this is how two people turn water into wine. Here, there is only you and him: strangers turned to lovers, ice thawed by fire, both sinners and saints. Here, every kiss you leave Ardyn is a litany written in bites and bruises, a keepsake for him to remember you by, as if to say: _this is what it truly means to make love._

As you lay on his chest in silence, listening to the uneven song of his heartbeat and his ragged breaths, an overwhelming torment simmers from the pit of your stomach, rising its way to your throat.

And suddenly, there are tears in your eyes.

Ardyn sits up and cradles your face with the warmth of his calloused hands, which only makes you sob uncontrollably.

“I’ll come back for you, I swear I will,” Ardyn promises, and you only nod. You nod, only because you could not say the selfish words trapped at the tip of your tongue.

_Please don’t go. Stay with me. Stay._

 

* * *

 

Alas, in the grand scheme of things, there really is no certainty on how things end. If anyone ever possessed the knowledge of the outcomes of every decision they make in life, choices would have been made carefully, differently.

Because if Ardyn knew what was waiting for him in the Crown City, he would undoubtedly have had second thoughts.

And if you knew, you would have taken that chance to be selfish and pleaded him to stay and kept him from going back.

Because it was not the Crystal’s denouncement of his ascension, nor was it the High Messenger’s sudden appearance, a woman clad in black and white and full of foreboding, bearing a message from the gods denying him his birthright that hurt Ardyn the most. Because he could live with that. He could live with their blessing to have Somnus to be the rightful king. He could watch over his brother and serve him with every fiber of his being.

But fate is a cruel thing, the gods even crueler.

Because what devastated Ardyn was how his family had to banish him as punishment. How his helpless brother cried and begged for mercy on his behalf, only to be forced to stop and to act like a king. How his own best friend was ordered to take him into prison. How the Astrals have considered him accursed and unworthy. How he had to pay an unjust price for only doing what he believes is right.

It only took a day—just one unhurried day—for Ardyn to lose everything that he loves.

 

* * *

 

_I'm perfectly fine, I appreciate your concern, I'm not going mad, I'm not out of my mind, it is eleven days, I'm perfectly fine my brother will see me soon_

 

* * *

 

_People are dying and I only did what I thought was right, I simply wanted to help, I only wanted to save people from their suffering, to give them a shred of hope, to save my own brother and protect him and how is that so wrong, why did the gods forsake me, why did my own family abandon me, why did my best friend betray me, why did every single person here leave me what did I do wrong why am I unworthy please tell me what I did wrong please I don’t understand please let me out there is someone I need to return to please give me a chance I don’t know what else to do please tell me where I went wrong please help me please I don’t understand I don’t understand why please_

 

* * *

 

_I'm perfectly fine, I appreciate your concern, I'm not going mad, I'm not out of my mind, it is eleven months, three weeks, two days, I'm perfectly fine my brother will see me soon I'm perfectly fine I'm perfectly fine I'm perfectly fine please give me a chance I don’t know what else to do please tell me where I went wrong please help me please I don’t understand I don’t understand why please there is someone I need to return to_

 

* * *

 

Ardyn no longer counts the days, and he does not even care about the weight of the time that has passed.

Perhaps the freezing temperature in Gralea is to blame. Ardyn is no stranger to the cold and dreary nature of Zegnautus Keep, and the entire expanse of Research Chief Verstael Besithia’s science laboratory only serves the purpose of an ornamental coffin in metallic gray, decorated with its rows upon rows of glass tubes. Still, this should suit him just fine.

He is a dead man walking, after all.

_Approximately two millennia..._

If Ardyn allowed himself to put some thought to it, he had actually stopped counting by the time he learned of your demise. Executed for treason and heresy for protesting against his imprisonment, despite saving your town and proving to the now incandescent city of Lestallum about the power of the meteorite. Not that they ever knew it was you who gave their city that phenomenal breakthrough. Naturally, someone had to steal the fruits of your labor and take the credit for it. Someone who is not a heretic and worthy to be written in books.

Erased from history. You and him are still so similar.

Ardyn surveys the glass panel where a dead daemon hangs butchered in all its grotesque glory. A balding, white-haired man wearing a white lab coat approaches him.

“Chancellor Ardyn Izunia!” By way of greeting, he asks, “What do you think of this captured monster, we intend to have this specimen as—“

“It is quite delightful, I must say—you need not say much, Chief Besithia,” he curtly answers, full of poison. Though if he has to admit, he wanted to spit actual venom to this pitiful man and watch him die with the scourge. The things these self-absorbed scientists claim to know about a daemon is how dangerous it is, and how hordes of them could burn cities and start wars and plunge the world into chaos. 

What do these people know of monsters, anyway? 

Because what else is a monster if not born out of a tragic sacrifice? What else is a monster if not an alchemy of suffering, fermented in loss and grief? What else is there if not a martyr in which kindness and compassion are dissected out of its fractured bones and stripped away from its bleeding flesh, cut into many different pieces and stitched back together as something barely human, only to carry a name of a dead lover as a consolation?

Ardyn wears an empty smile and begs his leave. Between him and all the ghastly daemons chained in these glass tubes, Ardyn knows he is the only monster in the room.

 


End file.
